


susceptible to falling

by kermiethefrog



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Bottom Sam Winchester, First Time, John Knows, M/M, Top Dean Winchester
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-07
Updated: 2019-05-07
Packaged: 2020-02-27 11:45:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,957
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18738364
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kermiethefrog/pseuds/kermiethefrog
Summary: Dad sayskeep Sammy safe.Dad saystake care of Sammy.Dad saysmake sure Sammy stays close, no matter what.So Dean does. No matter what.





	susceptible to falling

**Author's Note:**

> title from "i can change" by raleigh ritchie.

Dad says  _ keep Sammy safe. _ Dad says  _ take care of Sammy. _

 

Dad says  _ make sure Sammy stays close, no matter what. _

 

So Dean does. No matter what.

 

———

 

Years of Sammy’s small, warm body pressed against his own. Years of baby brother smiles. Years of caring for this tiny thing, putting his little brother before anything in the world. Years of being willing to kill for Sam. Years of being ready to die for him.

 

It does something to Dean. Makes his soul marred, carved-out and craving. His heart beats out Sam’s name, the consistent  _ thump-thump _ of bloodrush the same color of the way the world looks when Sam’s by his side.

 

He falls in love when he’s fourteen, over soft dimples, over dreamy eyes; a childlike seedling of love that blooms steady and strong. He will never be in love with anyone else the same way.

 

———

 

“Sam really looks up to you,” Dad says off-handedly. Dean looks up from where he’s cleaning his gun; Dad’s position is mirrored across the table. 

 

Dean shrugs. It’s true—Sam doesn’t really look at him with anything other than that little brother adoration, save for the few times Dean does his duty as an older sibling and manages to pull out an exasperated little sigh. 

 

“You keep him close, Dean,” Dad says. There’s something dark in it. Dean swallows and draws his eyes away, back down to his gun; his fingers tremble against the handle. Dad’s been saying the same thing for years— _ there’s something secret in Sam’s body, in his blood _ . Dean thinks maybe Dad knows what it is and refuses to say; but Dean doesn’t think his little brother is anything but good and sweet, straight down to his soul. “By whatever means necessary, you do what you have to in order to keep him close. He’s safer with us.”

 

“Yes, sir,” Dean answers and his mouth goes dry.

 

Dean’s not so sure about that—but he’s also not sure Dad is only concerned about Sam’s safety.

 

———

 

Dean wonders if Dad knows the things he thinks about his little brother. Wonders if Dad would ask him to do half the things he does if he knew—wonders if Dad knows and asks him to, anyway.

 

_ Go ahead and sit in the back with Sam _ .

 

_ It’s alright, you know he likes sleeping in the same bed. _

 

_ Take him out for a movie, alright? Left some money on the counter. _

 

Little commands that indulge in Sam’s need for affection and attention—death knells that harken the stake hovering over Dean’s heart. He wants to take what he knows he shouldn’t. He looks at Sam—Sammy, thirteen-years-old now, prettier than any girl Dean’s ever seen and starry-eyed over his big brother—and wants so deeply it paints darkness into the crevices of his ribcage.

 

Dean closes his eyes and jerks off in the shower to the image of dimpled cheeks and low-lidded baby brother eyes, to the pink of Sammy’s inner thighs and the strip of soft skin that peeks out whenever Sam stretches. He tells himself for years that it’s proximity, that it’s because his entire world has only ever revolved around his little brother. If only he could direct that focus elsewhere—if he could relieve that built-up energy elsewhere—

 

No amount of alleyway blowjobs and backseat fucks could ever make Dean’s heart long for anything but Sam.

 

If Dad can see the way Dean’s eyes are hungry for his baby brother, he doesn’t say anything.

 

———

 

Sam’s curled into his side, feet tucked under the arm of the couch as he rests his head in the crook of Dean’s arm. They’re in hour two of the evening’s  _ Twilight Zone  _ marathon, bellies full of mac-n-cheese and ice cream sandwiches. Dad’s out on a hunt, won’t be back for another week at least, which means Sam’s a little more open about asking for affection.

 

Sammy still gets shy around Dad even if Dad doesn’t discourage it. It makes it feel like something that’s just for the two of them; something sacred and special.

 

Sam requested one of Dean’s hands to hold halfway through the second episode. He keeps running his fingertips down the center of Dean’s palm, dragging lazy patterns absentmindedly. The sensation pools warmth into the pit of Dean’s stomach which he’s been ignoring for the better part of an hour to varying degrees of success.

 

Everything Sam does makes his nerves light with fire. Dean’s body is laser-focused on his baby brother; he’s not sure there will ever be a time when it isn’t. 

 

Sam lifts Dean’s hand to his cheek and presses his palm flat against it. It’s so sweet that Dean’s heart constricts in his chest, a painful ache that leaves him half-hard and wanting. 

 

“Your hand is warm,” Sammy comments innocently, nuzzling into it. Dean swipes his thumb over his brother’s cheek, and Sam lets out a pleasant little hum. “Do you think they’re gonna get bigger?”

 

“Maybe,” Dean answers. He imagines his hand covering Sam’s entire throat. His breath stutters in his own. “Yeah, probably.”

 

Sam presses an absentminded sweetheart kiss to the pad of Dean’s thumb, and Dean’s mouth feels sandpaper gritty and desert dry. When his baby brother realizes what he’s done, he looks a little embarrassed by his actions, moving to burrow into Dean’s side. It’s so fucking endearing—Dean wants to hold Sam down and kiss him until they’re both breathless.

 

“Hey, Sammy,” Dean calls out; his hand is still captured by Sam’s, so he pokes at Sam’s tummy with his free one. “What’re you doin’, dork?”

 

Sam’s head pops up immediately, and he sticks his tongue out at the nickname. Dean laughs, tickling his brother’s side until Sam wiggles and grabs his wrist; Dean lets him, watching as Sam interweaves their fingers on both hands.

 

He’s a little fascinated by it. Lets their hands drop into Sam’s lap where his baby brother stares at them, chewing the inside of his cheek. 

 

“Got somethin’ on your mind?” Dean half-rasps, throat dry.

 

“You’ve kissed people before, right, Dean?” Sam asks nervously, suddenly. He brings his eyes up briefly before dropping them again.

 

Dean’s heart stutters to a stop. “Yeah,” he answers, trying for something smooth and easy. He thinks he manages. He watches as Sam fidgets in his seat before he clears his throat. “Why, Sammy? You thinkin’ about kissin’ someone?”

 

Sam shrugs, eyes still downcast. Dean thinks he might be dying the way his lungs refuse to let up. 

 

“Who’s the lucky girl?”

 

“His name’s Tyler,” Sam croaks out, voice barely above a whisper. 

 

_ Oh _ . Makes sense. Hopeful in a way that Dean knows isn’t hopeful—it’s a far cry from loving your brother. But hope still tangles Dean’s stomach up in knots, just as painful as the jealousy that takes root.

 

“He in your class?” Dean asks. Prays, even. He wouldn’t know what to do if Sammy was out meeting guys God-knows-where.

 

Sam nods. Dean offers up a big brother smile and nudges Sam’s shoulder. “He a nerd like you?”

 

It gets him another petulant look, this time one of Sam’s bratty little pouts. Dean loves it all—the annoyed eye roll, the whining, even the quickfire anger. He loves his baby brother so much it’s a constant ache. 

 

Even through the teasing, Sam looks more relaxed; Dean wonders if he was scared of a crueler reaction. “He’s kinda popular,” Sam answers, shrugging again. His chest has curled in a bit, small against Dean’s side. “But he’s really nice to me and he—he asked if we could walk home together since his house is on the way to the motel, so. I don’t know.”

 

Dean doesn’t know Tyler but he can’t imagine anyone being met with Sam’s smile and not falling for him. Sam is good, smart, kind, loyal. Beautiful. He’s everything, and if Tyler isn’t a complete idiot, he’d feel fucking blessed to have the weight of Sammy’s sweetheart eyes directed at him.

 

His fingers flex in Sam’s hold, just a small twitch that he can't smother, before he draws his hands away. They feel empty without handfuls of baby brother. Jealousy is one painful, insidious motherfucker.

 

“You want me to show you? How to kiss?” Dean offers, even though he knows he shouldn't.

 

Sam’s eyes are wide and wondering when they meet his. Dean never wants anyone else kissing his baby brother. 

 

“Are you sure?” Sam asks, biting his lower lip.

 

There’s still an out. He could pass it off as a joke, one shove to Sammy’s shoulder and a bark of laughter. He could ruffle Sam’s hair and tell him not to look so hopeful, he knows the kind of real estate his lips have gone through. He could tell him not to get attached to Tyler because they’ll be gone in a few weeks, anyway.

 

He could.

 

“C’mere, Sammy,” Dean says instead and Sam turns his head, eyes innocent-wide and trusting. Dean thinks maybe his heart will give out. “Tilt your head up for me.”

 

Sammy does. Tilts his head up and closes his eyes, just a little too tight, lips trembling nervously. 

 

Dean’s kissed his fair share of people before. Easier to approach it after his first one and there aren’t many people who turn him down once he flashes a smile. It doesn’t seem to matter now—he presses their mouths together and his palms are sweating and his chin is trembling and he’s holding his breath because this is  _ Sam, _ this is his little brother, the eternal love of his stupid life. Sam lets out the softest sigh against his lips and Dean’s heart bursts and stitches together again and again, like Fourth of July fireworks, like the certainty of knowing their souls are intrinsically intertwined.

 

It’s stupid. Lovesick and melodramatic. Dean’s heart bleeds because there is nothing to tell him this won’t be the last time.

 

His hand finally— _ finally _ —reaches up to cup Sam’s jaw, and he tilts his head into a better position, their noses aligning side-by-side. He moves in soft, slow motions, the push and pull of his mouth against his brother’s, the lingering hold of Sam’s pout between his lips. Sam lets out a quiet hum, a high-pitched little keen that drags heat into Dean’s stomach.

 

He knows better. Shouldn’t use tongue for a lot of reasons—Sammy’s his little brother, it’s Sam’s first kiss, he doesn’t want Sam to kiss some random kid named Tyler like this—and only one of them actually makes him pause. But if this happens to be the only chance Dean will ever get, then—

 

He parts his lips, flicks his tongue over Sam’s cupid’s bow, and his little brother opens for him; there’s a wet spot that grows on the front of Dean’s jeans when Sam’s small, shy tongue meets his own. The breathy huffs that Sam makes are so fucking hot, and Dean laps into Sam’s mouth, fingers digging into his little brother’s cheek.

 

Sam moans out a wrecked little noise, and it slams heat straight down to Dean’s dick. He feels fingers curl into his shirt as Sam clumsily tries to keep up; it makes the kiss wet, messy, a little filthy. Dean’s so hard it hurts.

 

“Good, Sammy,” Dean murmurs, pulling away to press a soft kiss against Sam’s jaw. He doesn’t know if he means it as a question or a praise, but Sam sighs softly and nods anyway. “Just like that.”

 

When he draws back, Sam is flushed, eyes dreamy and lips spit-shiny. Dean thinks he could kiss them red and ruined. He wants to.

 

“Thanks, Dean,” Sam breathes out. He’s so starry-eyed it hurts to look at him. Sam’s gonna direct that look at another boy and Dean’s the one helping him. 

 

It’s an indulgence for Dean, then, that he leans in and kisses Sam one last time—chaste and close-mouthed, but gentle, intimate. Sam flutters his eyes shut for the last second of it and Dean gets to pull away to watch the way they slowly blink open again. 

 

Sam’s beautiful. Dean loves him so much he thinks he could die from it.

 

“No problem, little brother,” Dean makes himself say. He wipes the corner of Sam’s mouth and ruffles his hair. “Let me know how it goes with Tyler, kiddo.”

 

It doesn’t matter much, in the end. Sam never brings up Tyler again, and Dad comes back and hauls them off to another state before long.

 

It doesn’t matter much. Over the next week, Dean catches Sam touching his lips and flushing more than once.

 

———

 

“Dean?”

 

His voice is so quiet Dean almost doesn’t hear it. He shifts in bed, blinking his eyes open wearily and squinting through the darkness to find his brother’s form; Sam’s sitting on the edge of his bed, dim-lit with moonlight, and Dean reaches over to the lamp to illuminate him better.

 

Sam looks nervous. Shy. Dean pushes up onto his forearms and rubs his palm down his face. “You okay, Sammy?” he asks, voice sleep-gravelly. 

 

Sam tenses at the sound then pushes off his bed and stands by Dean’s. Hazel eyes glance up, meeting his own, before skittering away again. “Can I sleep in your bed?” Sam whispers and Dean shifts to the other side and holds up the edge of the blanket. His baby brother slides in next to him, crowding in close against his side. 

 

He could never say no to Sam.

 

Dean’s starting to drift again, his brain barely registering the way Sam shifts to rest a cheek on his shoulder, when Sam speaks up.

 

“Can we practice kissing again?” Sam asks, so quiet that Dean thinks Sam would rather he pretend he hadn’t heard it. He turns his head and Sam stiffens, staring at his hands. “We don’t—don’t hafta if you don’t—”

 

He’s silenced with the press of Dean’s palm against his cheek. “Yeah, Sammy,” Dean says, voice low and tight in his throat. He drags his tongue over his lower lip and Sam’s eyes shine as they flick down to watch. “Let’s practice.”

 

It’s been four months and three states since the first time they kissed. Dean’s dreamt about it every single night since.

 

Sam’s lips are warm and dry. Dean takes it slow at first; soft, lazy, lingering kisses, Sam’s lower lip caught between his own like a prize. They hardly get started before Sam’s letting out quiet pants, fingers flexing against Dean’s shoulders. It has Dean’s cock thickening in his boxers.

 

They part with Sam’s soft sigh huffing against his upper lip and an ache resting hot and heavy in Dean’s stomach. 

 

“Dean,” Sam whines quietly. The sound of it leaves Dean sucking in a sharp breath. “You didn’t… last—last time, you—” He cuts himself off before he can continue, face flushed red all the way down his golden throat; Dean wants to put his lips to the smooth skin there, too.

 

“Tell me what you want, Sammy,” Dean murmurs. Sam lets out another whine, turning his head to bury into Dean’s shoulder. Dean’s thumb stroking over his cheek coaxes him out again. “I won’t know what you want unless you tell me.”

 

It’s a light tease, but it’s enough to get Sam to push out his pout. His mouth is pink and a little wet and Dean can’t stop staring.

 

“Last time you used tongue,” Sam whispers. He’s so nervous that Dean can hear the tremor in his voice, how it wavers even through Sam’s soft rasp.

 

“You want me to kiss you like that, Sammy?” Dean asks. Sam’s pout catches between his teeth, eyes open and shiny and round, and Dean watches his little brother’s head bob up and down enthusiastically.

 

If Sam’s been kissing any boys since Dean taught him how, it doesn’t show. It’s just as wet and messy as their first time, just as desperate—Sam clings tight, fingers pressing so hard into Dean’s shoulders that he’s sure they’re going to leave bruises. There’s nothing in the room besides the hum of the next room’s television and the wet smack of their lips, so every breath of a moan that Sam can’t hold back rings out like a siren call in Dean’s ears.

 

The side of Sam’s thigh is pressed against his dick in a way where Dean can’t pretend he’s not hard. Sam’s hard, too, Dean can feel him moving against his hip—it takes him a few seconds to realize Sam’s humping, trying to grind against him. It makes Dean want to choke on his tongue.

 

“Dean,” Sam whispers dreamily, lips slick with saliva and red-ruined like Dean’s always wanted. He’s bolder with the way he ruts against Dean’s hip and Dean can’t stop himself from dropping a hand to Sam’s lower back to encourage him. “Dean, are you hard? Is your—”

 

“Yeah,” Dean says and Sam lets out a soft moan like the thought of it hurts, shifting in a way that presses a kid-thin thigh against his dick a bit more. 

 

“I did that?” Sam continues. His voice is breathy and thin, like he tries to contain it but can’t help the way it bursts. Dean stays mute, and Sam curls his fingers into his shirt, voice pitching up needy. “Dean, are—is your—is your cock hard because of me?”

 

The groan that tears out of Dean’s throat is ragged and raw. Dirty words on his baby brother’s lips; he’s not sure how he can take it. “Yeah, baby, you got me this way,” he answers and then Sam’s hand slides down to his navel, fingertips light where they slide just under his waistband.

 

“Can I touch you?” Sam asks, shy and soft. 

 

Dean’s heart stops.

 

Dean wants to tell Sam no; wants to push him away, get him to sleep. He wants to be a good brother, but then Sam looks up at him through his bangs and bites down on his lower lip and Dean can’t think much anymore.

 

“Okay, Sammy,” Dean says and Sam makes a wrecked little noise like Dean’s given him something good. “Go ahead.”

 

Sam’s fingers around his cock for the first time shatters Dean’s fucking heart.

 

“Oh, wow,” Sam whispers, hushed. Dean lets out a quiet groan. “You’re so big.”

 

These words aren’t meant for Dean’s ears, aren’t made to be said by little brothers. But it’s his, and Sam’s the one saying it, and it crushes all the air out of his lungs. Sam doesn’t need to be told anything, doesn’t have to be instructed—he squeezes his fingers tighter and thumbs over Dean’s leaking slit, rubbing insistently as he pants into Dean’s collarbone like he’s the one getting off.

 

Dean wants to chuckle. It gets choked off into a low groan that has Sam echoing out a softer, sweeter sound. “Jesus, Sammy,” he murmurs. Sam’s grip stutters at the sound of his name. “You want this bad, huh, baby?”

 

“I wanna make you feel good,” Sam confesses easily, and Dean fucks his hips up into his little brother’s hand. 

 

Sam pushes into Dean’s side, rocking his own hips into the hard line of Dean’s thigh. Whatever thought Dean has next fades away at the sound of Sam’s ragged breaths turning into full-throated moans as he squirms. Dean tries to guide Sam into a rhythm, helping him get off, but his little brother is impatient and needy, shifting until he’s nearly straddling Dean’s thigh. 

 

Their attention slips from the handjob to the way Sam humps his leg, Sam’s head thrown back and his mouth dropped open as he pants wantonly. Dean reaches out to tug Sam closer, and his brother goes easily, their chests pressed together as Sam gets off.

 

“Dean,” Sam whines sharply. He presses a clumsy kiss to Dean’s jaw and Dean tilts his head to align their lips. “Dean, m’gonna—I wanna—”

 

“You wanna come, Sammy?” Dean asks and Sam nods, frantic and eager. His hands move down to grip Sam’s hips, and when he raises his leg to meet with the heat of Sam’s cock, his baby brother nearly cries. Two more desperate grinds of baby brother hips and Sam comes, body tensing tight like a bow as he arches up and gasps against Dean.

 

Dean’s full of praises as Sam regains his breath, even though he’s not sure if Sam hears them—his mouth mumbles out  _ good job, baby _ and  _ that’s it, Sammy _ like prayers to a satisfied god. It takes Sam a moment to come back online, content with resting on Dean’s chest in post-orgasmic glow, but Dean’s near about to burst and Sam realizes it about the same time that Dean does. He drops his hand to Dean’s neglected dick, wrapping around it as he peers up into Dean’s eyes.

 

Sam’s gaze is low-lidded, his pupils so wide-blown that his eyes look black. Something about it sends an unsettling thrill through Dean, but then Sam’s sweetheart, dimpled smile crosses his lips and Dean feels drunk-in-love again. 

 

“Wanna make you come, too,” Sam breathes, and Dean kisses him.

 

Dean wraps his hand around Sam’s, guiding them in a fast and dirty pace that has Sam’s small fingers flexing against his dick. It doesn’t take much for Dean to come—a dozen strokes and he bites his lip so hard he starts bleeding, his hips arching off the bed as Sam lets out throat-scratched noises while his cum floods their palms.

 

Dean is deliberate when he wipes off their hands; he’s deliberate in the way he grabs Sam a change of underwear and hides the soiled pair at the bottom of the laundry bag. He’s deliberate in the way he tucks Sam into his own bed and kisses his forehead—when Sam blinks sleepily up at him, expectant and wanting, Dean is deliberate in the way he turns off the light and gets into his own bed that leaves no room for requests he shouldn’t grant.

 

———

 

Dean tells himself it’s a one-time thing until the next time Sam crawls into bed and whines as he rocks his hips into Dean’s thigh. He tells himself it’ll only happen in bed until Sam shyly curls into his side on the couch and asks if he can touch Dean’s cock. 

 

He tells himself it’s only touching, and then Sam’s stroking him slow and steady while Saturday morning cartoons are on in the background. He tells himself it’s only touching, and then Sam asks, “Can I taste it, Dean?”

 

Sam’s mouth is warm and wet. Small, too small to be taking in a cock, and Dean moans thinking about how tight his baby brother’s ass must be—he watches Sam stretch pink lips around the head of his dick and suck softly, tongue shyly licking at the tip.

 

Sammy doesn’t know how to suck dick, not yet, but he tries. Dean’s cock throbs when he thinks about teaching his baby brother all the best tricks. 

 

“Does—does this feel good?” Sam asks nervously when he pops Dean’s cock out of his mouth and presses small kisses to the head.

 

Sam could be giving him the worst head and Dean would still shower him with fucking praises at the eager look on his baby brother’s face. He presses his hand on Sam’s hair and Sammy pushes into it, lapping at the precum he’s dragging out with every upstroke of his hands. “Feels good, Sammy,” Dean reassures, and Sam beams under the praise. “Can you show me how deep you can take me?”

 

Sammy tries. He can’t get his jaw open wide enough for his tongue to sit relaxed in his mouth, and he barely gets a couple of inches in before he gags, eyes blooming with tears. He pulls back and wipes his eyes with the back of his hand, fingers tight as he strokes. “Sorry, Dean,” he says, voice thick and wet, and he clears his throat. “M’sorry, I can try again—”

 

“You’re doin’ good, Sammy,” Dean says instead, thumb sweeping underneath Sam’s lower lip, “takin’ me down like that. You gonna practice, baby?”

 

Sam’s eyes turn starry, a dreamy little smile dimpling his cheeks. “Yeah,” he answers, lapping at the head of Dean’s cock, “m’gonna practice until I can fit your whole cock in my mouth.”

 

Dean comes to hollowed out cheeks and low-lidded eyes. Sam sucks and sucks and sucks, until Dean strangles a moan in his throat, until Dean has to push Sam away from his over-sensitive dick. When Sammy’s pink lips pop off, Dean’s fingers replace where his cock had been—baby brother sucks on those, too, up until Dean pushes down on his tongue to force his jaw open.

 

Sammy’s tongue is clean. Dean feels like fucking drowning. 

 

“You swallowed it, baby?” Dean whispers because his voice can’t handle much more. 

 

Sam is all dimpled smiles and self-satisfied glow, and Dean doesn’t know how to smother the warmth in his chest even though he tries to.

 

He has never done anything Sam hasn’t asked for. Dean tells himself that, again and again and again. He lets Sam take the initiative because if things go by the wayside then Dean can tell himself that Sam wanted it. 

 

Some oil slick part of his soul says otherwise, but Dean’s gotten good at strangling the parts of himself that he hates just to stay alive for Sammy’s sake.

 

———

 

“Dean,” Sam whispers and Dean slowly blinks his eyes open, “you’re crushing me.”

 

He groans. Rolls over and rubs a hand down his face before burying his nose into the pillow. There’s a hand on his back and then a hesitant kiss on his shoulder—Dean half-turns and lifts his arm so Sam can drape himself over his chest.

 

“Mornin’, Sammy,” Dean says quietly, voice sleep-gravel and warm. Sam leans forward and tries to kiss him, unable to reach and hitting his chin instead. It makes Dean laugh and Sam buries his face in the hollow of Dean’s throat. “That your morning kiss?”

 

Lips find his skin, little sweetheart pecks against his neck. “Dad’s gone,” Sam offers shyly. Dad left late last night, a vamp hunt in Milwaukee, and Sam had immediately crawled into Dean’s bed when the rumbling engine faded away into the distance. 

 

Sam’s fifteenth birthday is in a week. Dean’s already bought him a present—small bottle of lube, a pair of lacy panties, and then something Sam would actually appreciate, the complete series of the  _ Lord of the Rings _ trilogy. It’s been weighing down Dean’s duffel for the past month, but it was on sale and in paperback, so Sam can carry them around from city to city. He’ll buy some cake at the convenience store and they’ll celebrate spread out together on the couch with Star Trek on in the background.

 

Dean’s looking forward to it. To something normal, something wholesome and good—for Sammy, because Sam deserves normal. Guilt swarms his chest like gnats, eating away at the meat on his bones. 

 

He’s a legal adult. Nineteen-years-old, and all he thinks about is fucking his fourteen-year-old baby brother for the first time. 

 

Dean barely bats an eye whenever Sam gets into bed with him, now. He lets his thighs part and his shoulders relax when Sam’s curious hands slip underneath his waistband. He gives kisses freely, leaves dark bruises over Sam’s thin, pale throat, and swallows Sam’s sweetheart moans. 

 

The worst isn’t the shame of turning his baby brother into a needy, wanting thing—it’s not the crushing guilt of kick-starting Sam’s pubescent libido so that his little brother is always hungry for what Dean wants to take from him. 

 

A year of dragging Sam down with him, and now Sam barely looks at anyone else.

 

“Dad’s gone,” Dean finally echoes; Sam pouts, biting it down the second after, and kisses Dean’s throat again. 

 

“Deannnn,” he whines softly, and Dean shifts flat on his back, arms wrapping around his little brother when Sam moves to lie on top of him. 

 

He tucks growing hair behind Sam’s ears, smooths his thumbs over his brother’s cheeks. Sam smiles gently, a domesticated dimpled smile that’s reserved only for Dean. 

 

Dean knows. Sam loves him, and Dean’s the one who made him that way.

 

That’s the worst part.  _ Make sure Sammy stays, _ Dad echoes out in Dean’s head, and Dean wonders if Dad really meant  _ no matter what. _

 

“Want me to spoil you, Sammy?” Dean asks quietly. His heart aches. He wonders why it can’t be simpler—why he can’t just accept it for what it is. Sam loves him. Sam loves him, and that’s all Dean’s ever wanted—like this, Dean can keep him close. Everyone can be happy.

 

Things are never simple with the Winchesters, maybe. They aren’t that lucky.

 

Sam has a sunshine glow about him. Dad sees something dark in him, but Dean’s never been able to. Baby brother blushes pretty in pink and rests his chin on the center of Dean’s breastbone, watching him with a drunk-in-love expression. “Yeah,” he answers, blinking slow and sweet. Dean’s everything craves all of his little brother. “Spoil me.”

 

It makes it easier when Sam looks blissed out and at peace. Easier to tell himself that Sam wants this as much as he does. Easier to tell himself that it’s okay that he’s wrecked him.

 

———

 

“We’re all we have,” Dean says. The words feel like stones in his mouth, but Sammy swallows them all down like it’s nothing. “Just you and me, okay? That’s all we can rely on.”

 

“Yeah, Dean,” Sam answers breathily. He’s still tight and teary-eyed, and Dean kisses him softly, crooking his fingers to draw out a sweet moan. “You and me.”

 

Sam’s still a virgin at sixteen because Dean’s self-hatred is strong enough to keep his self-restraint in check. Baby brother still comes on Dean’s fingers nearly every night when they’re alone, shaking and coming undone when Dean tells him to, but at least Dean can say he hasn’t taken this part of Sam yet.

 

———

 

“Dean, I got a case. We’re out on the road after dinner,” Dad instructs the moment he walks through the door.

 

Dean turns his head to look from where he’s standing in the kitchen, hands prone above the sink where he’s rinsing off green beans for dinner. He gives a short nod before he sets to hurrying up—dumps the dripping greens onto the counter, retrieves a cooking knife from their traveling set. He’s part-way through peeling open a can of condensed cream of mushroom soup for the casserole when Sam speaks up.

 

“No,” Sam says, and Dean can see Dad freeze through the corner of his eyes.

 

Between the dim noise of the tv and the rumble of the highway just outside the front door, the tension that snaps in the air is near deafening. 

 

“No?” Dad asks, steady, calculating—Dean knows they’re a few words away from a nuclear war.

 

“I don’t want him to,” Sam argues.

 

“Quit it, Sam,” Dad says, voice sharp through all its sandpaper grit. Sam shuts his jaw so quick that the room echoes out the clack of teeth. “There are things we have to do in this family. Sacrifices we have to make. Dean knows that he has to make that sacrifice. One day, you’re gonna have to learn that too. You plan on clingin’ to your brother forever?”

 

“Yes,” comes Sam’s automatic answer, defiant and so strong-willing that it clenches the roots of Dean’s guts, “I’m going to be with Dean forever.” Dean’s shoulders tense, back wooden board-straight and ready for conflict. He stays turned away, still chopping green beans, blood pumping through his ears. 

 

Dad pauses. There’s silence for a long moment, just the sound of the knife  _ chop-chop-chopping, _ before Dad speaks up. “You used to say the same thing when you were a kid,” Dad answers. Dean holds his breath. “Always thought you were gonna grow out of it.”

 

Sam says nothing. Dean wonders if this is how it ends—the thinly held truce between the three of them and the dark thing that Dad sees in his youngest. His hands shake.

 

Then, Dad says, “Dean, do you wanna stay here with Sam?”

 

Dean freezes. He slowly sets down the knife. Turns and faces the two of them; they both have expectant looks, painted in different colors. His mouth goes dry.

 

“Yes, sir,” he says, and Sam’s eyes brighten, “I wanna be with Sam.”

 

Dad doesn’t say anything about the word change—doesn’t notice or doesn’t mention, Dean’s not sure. When the Impala pulls away that night, it leaves Dean behind.

 

———

 

“Whatever we do,” Sam starts, “we do it together.”

 

It sounds like words Dean has fed him. Sounds like seventeen years of the rhetoric that Dad has taught him, words that Dean has taken to heart since the day he pulled Sammy from the fire. Hearing the words coming out of Sam’s mouth is like watching a ventriloquist act.

 

It’s unsettling.

 

This isn’t what he wanted for Sam. Dean wants to give Sam choices. That’s what love is. He wants to give Sam everything he deserves—wants to give Sammy a normal life, a big house somewhere, little brats running around and a wife that loves him and a dog or two. All the things that Sam used to dream about before Dean kissed him that first time—Dean feels like maybe he’s the only one who remembers what Sam wanted before he fucked it all up.

 

But Sam means everything to him. The life they live means everything to him; helping people, being a family, holding Sam, all of it, even the shitty parts where he comes back with five-inch gashes across his chest that leave Sam blinking away angry tears. 

 

He kisses Sam’s forehead, lets Sam’s smile soak into his bones to shake away just enough of the guilt and the shame and the fear so that he can respond.

 

“Yeah, Sammy,” Dean rasps back, “just you and me, baby.”

 

Sam deserves more than him. Dean is terrified for the day Sam realizes it. But Sam hasn’t yet, and Dean will keep him close until the day he does.

 

———

 

Sam gets acceptance letters from colleges all over the country. He gets one from Stanford offering a full ride. He shows Dean with shaking fingers, and Dean wants to smother Sam until there’s nothing left of him to leave.

 

Sam crawls into bed with him when they go to sleep. Curls into Dean’s chest and presses his palm against Dean’s bare skin; his hands are big, now. Bigger than Dean’s. Sammy’s entire body is, and only growing, but he’s still Dean’s pretty little brother.

 

“Tell me not to go,” Sam whispers, “and I won’t go.”

 

“Don’t go,” Dean whispers back immediately. His heart aches, bleeds for the boy he loves. He tells himself that Sam loves him back, would love him back even if Dean hadn’t done everything in his power to make him. 

 

“Okay,” Sam says. He draws his eyes up and presses his hand over Dean’s cheek, leaning forward to press a soft kiss against his lips. “I wanna be with you forever, Dean.”

 

It sounds like a death sentence, but it feels like heaven.

 

———

 

The day before Sam’s eighteenth birthday, Dad tells Dean to take the Impala and go somewhere nice.

 

“There’s a cabin north of Olympia, one of Bobby’s. Take Sam, spend a week off. Call it a birthday gift,” Dad says. The keys are white-hot and heavy in Dean’s palm, just as weighted as the hand on his shoulder. 

 

“You sure?” he asks slowly. “Just—the two of us?”

 

Dad looks him in the eyes, squeezes, lets his hand fall away. Drags his hand across his five-day-old beard and looks away. “I see the way you boys look at each other,” he says, and Dean’s heart stutters into a panicked stop. 

 

“I don’t—” Dean starts, fingers curling around the keys, and Dad heaves an exhale.

 

“It’s okay, Dean,” Dad cuts off. He turns and looks at him, really looks. Dean’s chest tightens at the acceptance he sees there—something simple. Maybe it always has been. He’s not sure—Winchesters aren’t good at simple. “It’s okay.”

 

Dean swallows thickly and nods. “Okay,” he echoes faintly. His hands itch for Sam’s skin. His soul itches for Sam’s sunshine smile. 

 

“Keep him safe, alright?” Dad says. He looks twenty years older, and he breathes like he’s finally getting to rest. “No matter what, you keep him safe.”

 

“Yes, sir,” Dean answers. The only thing he’s ever been able to do. The only thing he ever wants to. “I have.”

 

“Yeah,” Dad responds. Thoughtful. Distant. He looks at Dean and nods. “You have.”

 

They lean against the Impala and drink a six pack in silence until it’s gone. Dad says he’ll stay in the parking lot a while longer, and Dean leaves him to stargaze alone—he enters the motel room and kisses Sam awake, a slow, gentle connection that has his baby brother blinking his eyes open sweetly.

 

“Hey, baby,” Dean says quietly, and Sam pushes forward to kiss him again, “how ‘bout we take a little honeymoon for your birthday, huh?”

 

Sam offers up one of his dimpled smiles, and Dean’s heart aches.

 

———

 

Dean has three fingers in his baby brother when Sam reaches out for him, body bending so they can kiss.

 

“Fuck me,” Sam begs against Dean’s lips, “please, I’ve wanted it for so long.”

 

Sammy’s a legal adult. He’s been taking everything else Dean’s wanted to give him for nearly five years, opens up pretty against Dean’s lips and fingers and tongue. Sam’s been dropping to his knees to prove how perfect Dean’s cock fits in his throat since he was fourteen; he’s spent hundreds of hours with Dean’s fingers cradled in his ass, the slow, drawn-out torture of unraveling little brother tensions. 

 

This is something else. So intimate that it feels wrong to do it anywhere that isn’t the backseat of their home. 

 

Every new thing Dean does to Sam feels like another line crossed. A voice inside tells him that he won’t be able to turn back from this if he does it. 

 

Dean’s never been able to turn away from Sam, not even if he tried.

 

“Yeah,” he whispers, voice wrecked. “Yeah, okay, Sammy.”

 

Dean slips out a condom from his wallet sitting on the nightstand. He has the corner between clenched teeth when Sam’s hands press against his chest.

 

“No condom,” baby brother whispers, and Dean’s fingers stutter where they’re buried in barely legal pink, “I wanna feel you bare. I want you to come inside of me.”

 

Another line, and Dean crosses it with the push of the head of his cock into virgin ass.

 

Sammy is tight, but not painful, not difficult—Dean has been loosening him up for years, and he takes big brother cock like he was made for it. Dean sinks into his little brother and pants when he bottoms out; Sam’s thighs are pink and his cock is pink where it rests twitching against his tummy and Dean’s hip bones are pressed flush against the back of Sam’s legs and it’s so good, it’s so fucking perfect that he wonders how anything else is ever going to compare.

 

Tears run down Sam’s face like faucets, dampening his lashes and leaving little dark spots on the pillow cover. Dean reaches out and wipes them away as best as he can, and Sam heaves out hitched little breaths. 

 

“It’s so good, it feels so good,” Sam half cries, laughter bubbling out of him in soft puffs of air. “I’m sorry, I don’t—I don’t know why I’m crying—” he tries, but it just makes him cry more; he wails quietly as he drags his arms to cover his face.

 

Dean wrestles his arms back down, kisses all over Sam’s tear-soaked skin. “I know, shh, it’s okay,” he soothes, and Sam lets out a whiny rasp, “it’s okay, Sammy, let it out.”

 

“I never thought you would—I was so scared we would never get this—I wanted this so bad—” Sam tries to explain, and Dean’s throat constricts.

 

“I know,” Dean repeats earnestly, honestly.

 

He tries to go slow, to be as gentle as this soft, sensitive version of Sam deserves, but Sam quickly grows desperate and needy, his hips raising to meet with Dean’s thrusts and his fingernails digging crescent-shaped red marks into Dean’s shoulders. It rushes the both of them into a ferver—Dean digs the balls of his feet into the mattress and wraps his arms around Sam’s middle as he bunnyfucks into him, his breath coming out rasped against the sound of Sam’s shameless, choked-out moans in his ear. 

 

Sam scratches up his back, across his shoulder blades. “You’re gonna make me come,” Sam says, his voice torn up to shreds, “you’re gonna make me—Dean, I’m gonna—”

 

“Come for me,” Dean commands, “c’mon, Sammy.”

 

Sam comes with his heels digging into the top of Dean’s ass, nearly screaming as his body arches up into Dean’s. Dean can feels Sam’s dick twitch as it spurts out teaspoons of come against their bellies; he’d felt Sam’s ass tightening around his fingers hundreds, thousands of times, but feeling it around his cock is something else, so incredibly hot. Sam’s eyes are low-lidded, rolled back until Dean can only see the whites of them, his body spasming softly from the after-tremors, and he’s pliant and softly keening out moans when Dean fucks him through his own orgasm as it rips through him. He doesn’t want to groan, but it comes out of him anyway, a near-animalistic growl that rides over the slick, obscene sounds of his come slicking the way around his cock. 

 

When he finally pulls out, come drips out of Sam’s hole, trailing down onto the bedspread. It’s enough to make him bend backwards to grab his shirt dangling on the bedpost so that he can keep things from getting messy; by the time he turns back around, Sam’s flopped onto his side and massaging eager fingers into his sloppy hole, sliding in two fingers. Dean stares in awe—his cock gives a needy ache—as Sam moans into the pillow while he plays with Dean’s come.

 

“Fucking Christ, Sammy,” Dean rasps, and Sam blinks slow and sweet at him.

 

“It’s my birthday,” Sam says, and Dean swallows thickly when Sam flips onto his hands and knees. His little brother peers at him over his shoulder. “You only gonna come in me once?”

 

There was never a chance for Sam—Dean knows he would never have let Sam have anything else, not unless he fought for it. But he knows—they both know—there was never a chance for Dean, either.

 

———

 

There is no Stanford. No pretty-eyed blondes. No all-night study sessions or Smurfs sleep shirts. No sense of normalcy, not where Dean’s hands feel hotter than hell where they touch Sam’s skin. 

 

There’s just Dad’s vendetta, a car called home, and two freak brothers in love.

 

Dean’s done that with his own hands. He built a foundation and stacked everything on it. Precarious enough to keep him on a razor’s edge, but it’s still standing.

 

Dad and Sam still fight, because they do, because they have to. They are opposing incendiary forces, more anger than any other emotion, and Dean’s caught in the middle trying to tame it.

 

Sam is always easier to calm down than Dad is. Every year that passes, Dad gets increasingly more paranoid. He sees demonic omens in every town they come across. He sees a dark thing wearing the face of his youngest son. He asks Dean in harried, rasped whispers if he’s taking care of Sammy, if he’ll take care of Sammy when he ain’t Sammy anymore.

 

Dean does a lot to convince Dad everything is fine, but a bottle of Old Crow does a better job than he can nowadays.

Sam is easier to calm down than Dad is, but Sam still rages under his breath, packs his bags and makes to leave. He promises he will one day with sobs heaving in his chest and begs Dean to come with him, begs Dean until he’s throat-hoarse and exhausted.

 

Dean kisses him, holds him, quiets him when Sam wants to scream. “Just you and me here, little brother,” he murmurs. “Just us.”

 

“Why can’t it be just us somewhere else?” Sam whispers, and Dean doesn’t have an answer for him.

 

There is no Stanford, but Dean’s always terrified that this rickety thing he’s built will come apart.

 

———

 

October drapes nearly frozen in South Dakota. Dad’s on a job and hasn’t contacted in a few weeks; it’s not unusual, not since Dean started taking on cases on his own, but it’s worrying. Sam reassures him with morning blowjobs and soft smiles.

 

Sam’s been taking college courses online—he helps with research and hunts when he’s free, but even Dean knows that his little brother doesn’t like it. Sam wants something more domestic than this; Dean can’t imagine it being anything more. They spend every day together—every night, too, now that they’ve been on their own more often than not. 

 

Dean can’t imagine anything more domestic than lazy bathtub sex and next-morning pancakes in bed across the fifty states.

 

It’s the end of a case completed, a quick salt-and-burn for a ghost haunting a museum, and Sam’s curled into his chest, one knee pulled in tight and pressed over Dean’s thighs. His little brother is so beautiful that he holds his breath sometimes, just to suspend himself in the moment where the moonlight washes silvery over Sam’s face. Tonight they’re to-the-bone tired, so they’re both still bedtime dressed, and Sam breathes softly—the feeling of Sam alive underneath his fingertips is one Dean never gets tired of.

 

“I have dreams,” Sam confesses. Dean runs his fingers through Sam’s hair, massages against his scalp. Sam blinks slow against the skin over Dean’s heart. “Nightmares. Of bad things happening.”

 

Dean hums quietly. Takes the hand that Sam holds out, weaves their fingers together. “You wanna talk about ‘em?” he asks.

 

Sam shrugs. 

 

“You’re safe, Sammy,” Dean says. Sam buries his face into his shoulder and presses a kiss there. Sweetest thing Dean’s ever wanted to hold, and he gets to wake up to him every day. “I got you.”

 

“Demons,” Sam finally says. He closes his eyes and breathes in deep. “And blood.” 

 

Dean hums. They haven’t run into demons, not since the night their mother died. Dean gets nightmares about that night, too. He kisses Sam’s hair. “Ain’t nothin’ can get to you, Sammy, not as long as I’m around,” he reassures.

 

Sam’s silent for a long time. When he speaks, his voice breaks around the edges. “I’m not—I’m not being hurt, I don’t think,” he confesses. “I think they listen to me.”

 

“Maybe you got some demon-controlling mojo,” Dean tries to joke.

 

“You’re in them, too,” Sam whispers. It looks like it hurts him to say it.

 

“What am I doin’? Savin’ your ass?” Dean teases, even if his tongue feels too thick in his mouth.

 

Sam is trembling against him, and fear is a slow cold trickle into the pit of his stomach. He holds Sam close, and his baby brother says it so quietly that Dean might not have heard it if it wasn’t spoken right into the side of his throat.

 

“You’re on the ceiling,” he says, voice wavering, and Dean’s heart stops, “and you’re on fire.”

 

———

 

_ Make sure Sammy stays close, _ Dad says, _ no matter what. _

 

Dean wonders if the thing that Dad’s been seeing in his youngest hasn’t finally caught up to them.


End file.
